


Take me back

by Moonfreckle (Sunfreckle)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1920's England, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Mob, Betaed, Dark Romance, First Meetings, Nonbinary Jehan, Other, Rated M for setting more than actual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 01:23:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16460774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Moonfreckle
Summary: …to the night we metLondon, 1922Perhaps it’s true that everyone belongs somewhere, but the odds of being out of place are far greater. Montparnasse knows he doesn’t belong here, not now, not yet, but neither does the redhead leaning against the gleaming bar.





	Take me back

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel for my story "Who wants to be in heaven", started because the ever encouraging Mardisoir once asked about their backstory and finally completed for Jehanparnasse week 2018.
> 
> Thanks as usual to my sister for betaing and convincing me this was worth posting.
> 
> (The title and feel of this piece were inspired by [Lord Huron's "The Night We Met"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtlgYxa6BMU&ab_channel=LordHuron))

_London, 1922_

 

All cities are built on smoke and grime. Montparnasse knows that better than anyone. Still, even he feels the glittering illusion of London.

He’s here to show his face to some important people that fancy they will be important forever. They won’t be. Not if Montparnasse has anything to do with it. But for now he is here, in his _second_ -best suit and without even Claquesous by his side, selling idle compliments to the greedy men that rule over the darker corners of the capitol.

The sneer is starting to shimmer through Montparnasse’s smiles by time the meeting ends. He has to remind himself to keep his head down and he does not do it gladly. At home there is no one left that dares to talk down to him, not even the ones that still try to. Being looked at like cloth to be measured before it’s cut brings back old bitterness Montparnasse had thought he had left behind him.

His companions speak of mixing business with pleasure, but Montparnasse knows all they want is an opportunity to show off what they most pride themselves on. Montparnasse is tempted to decline, to simper some insincere goodbye and disappear, to spare himself the insult of being offered cheap thrills like they’re generous gifts. But of course he accepts, with his most charming smile, because _he_ is here solely for business.

When he steps inside the crowded club, however, Montparnasse’s resentment falls by the wayside. This is the London he is willing to believe in. The dream he buys into while simultaneously selling it to others like the con he knows it is. Money, music, _light_. Idleness and wealth twisted together with their claws dug so deep in one another’s skin that they are no longer separable.

Montparnasse ignores his companions even as he sits down with them. Whatever toasts are made as the whiskey is poured he echoes without hearing them. He is too engrossed in watching the dancers, the couples in the smoky corners, the clusters of drowsy lovers stretched out on sofas in the alcoves. They all move to the music, taking the up the rhythm wildly or languidly, and they blur together into a blissful absence of reality. Here the lies, normally stretched so thin across a sour truth, feel strong enough to last a lifetime.

Montparnasse loses himself, willingly, indulgently, in the sights around him. The gleaming pearls, the swirling fabrics, glittering gold on flushed skin.

It’s a wonder he notices them at all. They should have stayed in the background, hidden behind the throng of movement, faded into the backdrop of polished wood and decorative mirrors. There is no reason for Montparnasse’s gaze to linger on the bar and yet it does.

His eyes find a flash of red hair contrasted against fair skin. Montparnasse sits up.

Perhaps it’s true that everyone belongs somewhere, but the odds of being out of place are far greater. Montparnasse knows he doesn’t belong here, not now, not yet, but neither does the redhead leaning against the gleaming bar. Albeit for very opposite reasons. Oh they look the part. Short curls smoothed delicately down, wrapped in silk that catches the lamplight to turn itself gold. But no, they don’t belong here. They seem to know it too, watching the dancing like the noise and heat of it barely reaches them.

Montparnasse scans the bar. There is no one attending them, but they don’t seem to be waiting either. Slowly, under Montparnasse’s curious eyes, a small smile dawns on the pretty face. Have they noticed him?

The bartender appears behind them, presenting a glass, and to Montparnasse’s fascination the redhead doesn’t move languidly like he had expected them to, but quickly. Their movements, extending their arm, making the tassels of the shawl draped around their shoulders flutter, are light and alert. Like a quick little bird. When they turn back towards the dance floor, fingers curled elegantly around their glass, Montparnasse sees a brightness in them he hadn’t noticed before.

The smile is still on their lips. Perhaps they aren’t smiling because of him. Perhaps they are simply smiling at the world around them. They are entitled to, Montparnasse thinks. They are real. There’s no veneer to their beauty, no lie on that face. They are as out of place as they are beautiful. A wildflower among hothouse roses.

If he had been alone, Montparnasse would have joined them at the bar. But he isn’t. He’s surrounded by men he’d stab as soon as speak to if he was free to do it.

That thought, bitter and intrusive, makes him realize that he’s been staring. He turns his back on the bar, reluctance annoyingly present in his mind, and slips smoothly back into the boorish conversation at his table. His companions drink more than they talk though and Montparnasse pays attention to the number of glasses much closer than to their words. They will not last long at this pace, no matter their careers and constitutions.

Sure enough, one by one they start to slink off. Led away by pretty girls, or flanked by the silent men that watched over them form the start. Montparnasse stays, smiling jovially at every departure, because the redhead is still at the bar.

They have not always been alone, but they have not left and when Montparnasse is finally free of the drains on his patience and attention, they are watching the dancing just as before. A nearly empty glass in their hand, a slight smile on their lips, soft waves of hair auburn against creamy skin.

Montparnasse gets to his feet slowly, weighing choices he made long ago, and cuts across the dance floor.

The bartender acknowledges him immediately, the redhead does not. When he comes to stand beside them they do though. Their eyes are even brighter up close. Oh they are exceptionally pretty.

Their gaze drifts from Montparnasse’s face to the table he previously occupied, already being claimed by new customers.

“Your friends are very dangerous men,” they say, not waiting for Montparnasse to begin a greeting. “The kind people warn each other to stay away from.”

Montparnasse smiles. They are lovely. Their voice exactly as arch and elegant as it ought to be.

“Would that mean I am dangerous by association?” he asks lightly, allowing himself a moment to properly take in the whole of their appearance.

They do the same, their eyes lingering on the silk tie knotted carefully at his throat in a way that nearly makes Montparnasse’s smile twitch into something less polished.

“Undoubtedly dangerous,” they say, their gaze meeting his again. “But I _do_ doubt whether that has anything to do with association.” There is a smile in their voice and a laugh in their eyes and Montparnasse curses every minute he spent trapped at that table.

“Does that not make me someone to stay away from then?” he asks, sipping his drink.

“You approached me, remember,” they say sweetly, putting their own empty glass aside. “And besides—” Their eyes scan the crowd, giving Montparnasse the opportunity to study the freckles scattered across their cheek. “—there might never be another day. Why waste it on regret?”

Montparnasse had not expected fatalism from such sweet lips. The sentiment doesn’t suit them. Daylight may very well shatter every illusion around them, none of these people around them may last the night, but they’ll still be here in the morning. They have to be. Montparnasse cannot imagine them either touched or blemished, not by day or by night.

His attentive silence earns a smile from them. “Do you have a name I could use?” they ask, reminding him they skipped a proper introduction.

“Forgive me,” he says, smiling back and inclining his head in half a bow. “Montparnasse.”

Their eyes light up with surprise and Montparnasse looks for the expected amusement, but there is none of that.

“Montparnasse,” they repeat with practiced schoolroom pronunciation and they smile a little wider. “Charming. My name is Jehan.”

They do not extend their hand and Montparnasse laments it, because he so wants to touch them. Jehan’s hands are ungloved and Montparnasse wants to feel if their skin is as soft as it looks.

“Well, Jehan,” he says, tasting the sound of it carefully. “If this is to be our last night on earth, shall we dance?”

Jehan does not draw back, doesn’t blush or look shy, but they give a minute shake of their head. “I never dance here,” they say, casting their eyes around the room again. They look back at Montparnasse and their lips curve into a genuine smile. “Not even when I’m asked so prettily.”

There is a certain charm to pressing one’s will, but Montparnasse knows when to use it. This is not the time.

“What a shame,” he says smoothly. “But if you can have no dancing, you must have champagne.” And he beckons the bartender back.

“A fine substitute,” Jehan smiles as the glasses are poured.

“Both are indulgences,” Montparnasse says, nodding at the bartender to leave the bottle. “Which lands them among the necessities of life,” he adds, offering Jehan their glass.

“There is no life without indulgence?” Jehan asks amusedly and as they take their glass they brush their fingers against his, lingering long enough to make Montparnasse wish it were longer still.

“No life,” he says, raising his glass to theirs. “Merely existence.” And to his infinite delight, Jehan laughs.

For as long as it takes them to finish the champagne, glass by glass, Montparnasse does everything in his power to hear that laugh again. Jehan makes him work for it. They are easily amused, but not lightly entertained. Jehan is entertaining though. They betray their education when they speak and Montparnasse does nothing but encourage them. He knows there will be a tomorrow, he will not suffer life to quit on him now. Not when he finally has a chance to take what he wants. But there may never be such a night again. No second chance to talk art and literature with a child of riches that is flirting with him from a misplaced desire to live in the moment.

“You make it sound wild, your home,” Jehan murmurs, their lips wet from their last sip of champagne.

Montparnasse smiles at the way they are draped in their chair, all softness and gilt edges. “Birmingham isn’t my home,” he says. “It’s the place I was born.” The place where he’ll be just a little while longer.

Something in that turn of phrase seems to strike Jehan, because they go quiet, looking at him with a stillness in their eyes Montparnasse hasn’t seen before.

“No places like this in Birmingham,” he says thoughtfully, never taking his eyes off them.

“There are better places than these,” Jehan says and they sound solemn. The weight of their words does not seem to rest on what’s around them though. Montparnasse is more than willing to believe Jehan knows of better places than these, but he’s suddenly very certain that where their mind is drifting to is worse places. Infinitely worse. There is a tone hidden deep in their voice that betrays it and Montparnasse, who is never moved so quickly, has to swallow down a sudden irrational hatred for the person that put it there.

“Better places,” he says, using as playful a tone as he can to call Jehan back to him and away from their thoughts. It suddenly feels like he’s sharing them with someone. He doesn’t like it.

They blink, their gaze darting back to his gratefully and Montparnasse smiles just a little.

“Places good enough for you to dance in?” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Because _personally_ —” He lets the smile slip into a near smirk. “—I’d be hard pressed to find a place I’d prefer to this one.”

“But me dancing would be enough to convince you?” Jehan ask, slanting their head.

“Instantly,” Montparnasse promises.

The little lights coming to life in Jehan’s eyes are more than enough reward for Montparnasse, but he is delighted when they suddenly rise to their feet.

“I could show you if you like, Monsieur Montparnasse.”

The French rolls off their tongue in a way he never manages to make it do himself and he wants to hear them say it again, a million different ways. He rises beside them. “Lead the way, little bird.”

◊

Jehan finds their way through the dark of the city far too effortlessly. Montparnasse offered them their arm as soon as they stepped out of the taxi, but despite the way they lean into him as they walk it is definitely them leading him.

That the music is different, Montparnasse hears immediately. The difference in the crowd he sees as soon as his eyes adjust to the dim light. There is no abundance of finery here, no chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, but the haziness of it all is brilliant.

What’s more, Jehan, still leaning on his arm, is a different creature here. This is a backstreet club, carefully hidden from daylight and decency, they should be more out of place here than anywhere, but they are not. Here they stand out without breaking the patterns around them and they move like they know every beat of the music. Montparnasse drinks in the sounds and smells with the same greed he does everything and he takes in the sight of the crowd with a delight as sincere as the fondness on Jehan’s face.

The music is faster here, but it seems to cling to the dancers as they move through it. They are a blur of rolled down stockings, glittering beads and dishevelled neckties. Jehan glances up at him from behind their lashes as if they just showed him a terrible secret and he smiles.

Nearby two women, one in a suit of as fine a cut as Montparnasse’s, dance like the world has slipped away from them entirely and Montparnasse wants nothing more than to follow their example. He leans towards Jehan just a little and thrills when they draw closer still.

 “You said you’d dance,” he says, dropping his voice low. “But will you dance with me?” He has to dance with them. He has to.

Jehan doesn’t answer, instead they move into his arms.

They dance.

Montparnasse forgets who is coaxing who and he doesn’t care. Jehan twirls and shimmers and laughs and doesn’t slow down until the music does. When it does they allow him to pull them close and press up against him, their head nearly resting against his shoulder.

“Tell me some more about the place you were born?” they say softly and he complies without hesitation.

He pours his previously unspoken thoughts into them as if he is personally trying to make up for their own silence. Because Montparnasse gets nothing from them but what’s directly before him. No past, no occupation, no family name. He doesn’t press them, but he wants to know. Wants to know what brought them here. What allows them to be in his arms tonight, while insisting they may not be anywhere tomorrow.

With dancing and talking the night slips by and Montparnasse’s thoughts begin to turn on him.

A week. He has a week in London. Less if there happens to be trouble back home. That is not enough.

He looks into Jehan’s face, lovely in the dim light and he wonders. He wonders about everything he has back in Birmingham, everything he does not yet possess in London and everything he has in front of him right now.

Montparnasse is not a gambler. He doesn’t take risks without messing with the odds first. He stays in control. Surely he’s not going to risk all that now?

“How long do you think until sunlight?” Jehan’s voice is soft, but they are so close the music seems distant compared to it.

“Not long enough,” he murmurs.

They look up at him and this time their words are barely a breath past their lips. “If I asked you to, would you kiss me?”

Montparnasse looks back at them. At their eyes peering up from behind their lashes, at the look that makes him want to make promises they didn’t even ask for. He drops his head down just a little, closing the last bit of space between them and softly, gently, touches his lips to Jehan’s cheek. There’s a slender neck in reach, sweet lips parting in silent surprise, but Montparnasse draws back with just that single kiss. Under his gaze a pink blush, warm and real, spreads across Jehan’s entire face.

“Yes.”

Montparnasse knows he just answered two questions instead of one.

So be it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading ❤
> 
> [[Read 'Who wants to be in heaven' here.]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12661122)


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